My Experience Working with Men Who Use Violence

Marianna Jaross

My first placement when completing a Master of Counselling and Psychotherapy was co-facilitating a Men’s Behaviour Change Program in a group setting; as well as working with men individually who were involved with Corrections. Often, this was because they were choosing to use violence and coercive control towards the women closest to them. This client group was usually mandated to see me or participate in the group.

I was in my early twenties at the time, and it was a challenging first placement experience. Many years later is stills prompts questions from interviewers when I apply for work in an unrelated field: “Wow, what was that like?” And sometimes, pointedly; “Do you think that these men can change?” 

The answer is complex.

As group facilitators in this space may tell you, the ‘process’ of a group or dynamic is revealing: A lot of the ‘live’ material occurred, from my perspective at least, in response to who I was in the room. I watched men walk straight past me and shake the hand of my male co-facilitator. I was asked out for drinks. Someone would make a derogatory comment about their partner or ex-partner, and it felt like everyone would turn to me to see how I would react.

One of my learnings personally in this space was just how ordinary everyone looked. Everyone was from a range of demographics, professions, and ages. Professors. Professionals. Tradies. Men who looked like they could be on my tram home. 

This stuck with me. When we use the term ‘perpetrator’ or ‘men who use violence’ this conjures up some sense of ‘other,’ or a category removed from men with a ‘regular’ life. They have a family, a history, head to work during the week; maybe even in an industry that is highly respected. Or in a position of power. The fact that there is no real ‘typical’ profile of a man who uses violence was unsettling for me to see because it seemed this behaviour could occur from anyone.

As a trainee therapist, I was learning about Rogerian ‘unconditional positive regard;’ a part of which involves accepting a client without judgement, and believing in their ability to grow. This stance on its own would be unhelpful, dangerous even, if applied to this client group where men were harming, abusing, and traumatising women and children. The spectrum of emotions in this space ran high: Men felt shame. They blamed their partner. They blamed their own upbringing. They held their history of trauma. They shirked accountability for their actions. They revealed attitudes or entitlement, and attitudes towards women as lesser-than.

Holding this front of mind, and keeping women and children ‘in the room’ of a session metaphorically, was a powerful reminder of why I was there. I was also encouraged to consider that there was also a particular version of masculinity that men were exposed to. Their own story. An ecosystem in which their behaviour existed; and that was also not an excuse for their present choices and actions.

This was the uncomfortable and challenging dance of this work from my perspective: To build some semblance of rapport to do ‘the work,’ to keep the women and children in the room and front of mind when delivering interventions, to hold the possibility of change, and to hold the man to account for his behaviour. There was work to be done to address shame, and conditioning; while keeping the impacts of his behaviours on the people around him at the forefront. 

Even building rapport was complex. I could sense that perhaps there was some insight; and then I’d feel betrayed when I found out that he had chosen to use violence again. Sometimes I felt that there had been genuine change with some men I worked with, but I never found out whether this lasted long-term. Sometimes during our time together, his partner would leave. The work, strangely perhaps, became about making sure the man was supported during this time; particularly knowing well that this is when he could choose to further escalate his power and control tactics. Support would look like coping strategies, resources, professional support, and a network that held him to account. Anything that increased the woman’s ability to leave safely, and for him to make better choices was something.

But a woman leaving often did not mean the end of a man’s choice to exert control and power, which he did through weaponizing children, legal systems, a woman’s ‘mental health,’ and exerting financial control. So no, she couldn’t ‘just leave’ in the face of coercive control. If she attempted to, it was often at heightened risk and terror to herself, loved ones, and children. Think about the context the man creates: Controlling access to phones and communication. Controlling access to money and finances. Cutting the woman off from resources, money, work, friends, family, and community. Threats against their children. Threats to complete suicide if she leaves. Threats to family members. Threats to harm animals. Sexual violence. Years of tearing her down and chipping away at her sense of self.

When a woman leaves, or attempts to; this is frequently when the man can choose to escalate his behaviour and choose violence. The risk does not stop upon her departure, it heightens. A deeply terrifying position for women to be in. 

As practitioners we were on the lookout for invitations to collude, where minimising, justifying, victim-blaming, and trauma stories were presented as an alternative to accountability. I would hear about buttons being pushed, sexist attitudes, and assumptions that he was the centre of the house, and that everything and everyone should revolve around him. I would hear disclosures of violence; often minimised.

Then there was the question of the man using violence as having had experienced his own trauma, which I noticed, tended to divide people in the sector: We needed to work with the trauma to address the behaviour and choices he was making vs. By doing so, we risk colluding with the man and his narrative whilst ignoring the present impacts on the women and children in his life. He always has the option to use non-violence; as not every person who experiences violence goes on to perpetrate it.

For me personally, I have drifted away from the sector; and yet, a part of me feels very much a part of it. I think about how, from my understanding, several programs were funded after the Royal Commission into Family Violence in Victoria almost a decade ago, and only a handful continued after a few years. I feel sadness. I feel fear. I wonder about what we are going to do differently.

I still think deep shifts are required: More flexible versions of masculinity. Men being held to account for their behaviour. Men being encouraged to reach out for support. Women being treated as equal, important, and having a voice; not just within relationships, but in broader social structures to reinforce this. Women having access to the practical resources and supports in order to heal and rebuild. And as such, having enough programs, funding, and practitioners across the family violence sector.  

© Marianna Jaross 2026